


2015 advent calendar

by largoindminor



Series: Advent Calendar 2015 [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Advent Calendar, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:18:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 9,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5421890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/largoindminor/pseuds/largoindminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean buys them a gaudy advent calendar that yields 2 piece of chocolate and one quote each day. The boys apply the random quotes to their real life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 12/1

**Author's Note:**

> i'm posting this daily to [tumblr](http://sasquatchandleatherjacket.tumblr.com/tagged/advent+calendar%22) but putting the whole thing up here for safekeeping. each chapter is 1 day's drabble, they're pretty short. i'm just making it up as i go along, so it may be a little disjointed. eventual non-explicit flangsty getting together wincest. possibly porny epilogue who knows.

There’s a box covered in red cellophane on the kitchen table. It doesn’t catch Sam’s attention at first, plunked down amidst the books and newspapers they had poured through over breakfast. Dean had been shopping (for food, ostensibly, but he’d been gone all day) but usually comes home with some of the strangest things, so something like the box barely even registers. But when Dean goes to move it the thing, well, it  _jingles_ , and damn if that doesn’t pique Sam’s curiosity.

“What’s that?” he asks, gesturing to the box that Dean’s now unwrapping.

“Habaggaby,” Dean says, or that’s what Sam’s able to make out over the (unnecessarily loud) cellophane crinkling.

“Uh, come again?”

Dean’s finishes with the cellophane and shoves it aside, turns the box to face Sam, “I said it’s candy. I mean, candy inside this. It’s an advent calendar… box… thingy. Doorbuster special, only nine ninety-nine and there’s two, count ‘em  _two,_ pieces of chocolate for each day. Great deal, huh?”

Dean’s wagging his eyebrows, clearly pleased with himself, so Sam doesn’t mention that you can buy a couple hundred pieces of the same chocolate for ten bucks. Besides, Sam’s pretty sure Dean knows that, and that candy didn’t factor so much as Dean’s love of gaudy Christmas decorations. And it’s gaudy, alright. Bright green and red patterns. Yellow stars. Cartoon angels. _Silver bells._

_Glitter._

“Uh, s'nice.” Sam manages, smiles at the way Dean’s eyes light up like this ten dollar cardboard box some priceless treasure.

“So. Today’s the first, wanna split?” Dean’s already pulling open the first compartment as he asks. Two wrapped pieces of chocolate fall out, along with a small sheet of paper, Dean reads what it says as he’s handing Sam his share.

“ _Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple._ _Doctor Seuss_ … Oh, I guess the candy comes with quotes? Neat.”

Sam nods, unwraps the candy, “Yeah I mean, traditionally they’d have, like, quotes from scripture, verses about Jesus, that sort of thing. I guess you got us the, uh, the secular advent calendar, then,” Sam smiles, “and thanks.

Sam turns to leave the kitchen, it’s getting late and there’s some more leads he wants to chase down before bed, but his eyes catch Dean, still standing with the paper in his hand. “Dean?”

“What’s the question, Sam? If… if the answers’re so simple, what’re the questions?” Dean sounds real serious, like this is some important ancient text he’s holding instead of a glorified fortune cookie fortune.  
  
Sam shrugs, takes the paper from Dean’s hand and lays it on the counter. “It’s just a quote. But I mean. I guess it’s one of those things, like, trying to ask the meaning of life and you expect some long drawn out thing only the answer’s  _love_  or  _family_  or something simple like that.” His shoulder nudges Dean’s when he says  _family_  and it earns him a dazzling smile.

“You’re probably right,” Dean picks up the quote again, puts it in his pocket. He motions back toward the advent calendar as he leaves the room, “same time same place tomorrow, eh Sammy?”

“Yeah,” Sam calls after him, and just like that, they’ve got a tradition going.


	2. 12/2

> _a happy family is but an earlier heaven_  - _george bernard shaw_

Sam shuffles into the kitchen, half asleep and driven by the smell of fresh brewed coffee. Dean, who’s up unusually early  _and_  acting unusually cheerful, offers him a pre-filled mug and a small piece of chocolate while humming some hybrid of joy to the world and deck the halls. Sam thanks him and has a seat.

“You’re happy, right Sam?” 

Dean’s question clears away the lingering sleep fog in Sam’s brain, but he struggles for an answer. “Yeah? I mean, I guess?”  _For a certain definition of happy_. Sam’s not sure where the question came from until he spots the day’s quote laying across the table, then it clicks, and his heart kind of lurches at the thought of Dean reading this and applying it to their own, messed up little family. “Dean? Are you? You know, happy, too?”

Dean sits across from him, fiddles with the scrap of paper, stares down at it. “Yeah,  _I_ am. I mean, for the most part. But you, I mean, you had all these plans…”

Sam reaches across the table, rests his index finger over Dean’s to still his hands. And Dean stops fidgeting, stops moving completely for several long seconds before looking up at Sam.

“Dean. Stop. I am  _fine_. This isn’t what I’d planned at one point, yeah, ok. But. I am happy. For me, anyway. For us. We’re good, ok?” Sam feels it, he does, the warm, slightly buzzing feeling in his gut when he truly thinks about his life, stacks all the good against the bad and and see that there’s more bad, sure, but the good is still  _bigger_. He does his best to shove that feeling out through his eyes for Dean to see.

Dean just smiles like he gets it, taps the table and folds the quote into his pocket. 


	3. 12/3

> _The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why. –Mark Twain_

Sam declines his share of the chocolate tonight. He forgot all about it, actually, and already brushed his teeth, anyway, so when he shuffles into the kitchen for a glass of water before bed and Dean’s offering it to him with a chocolate toothed grin, he tells Dean to have it.

Dean smiles wider and pops the second candy into his mouth and heads into the hall before spinning around and bounding back in.

“Forgot. ‘Bout the. Thing.” He’s not too eloquent, probably put away five or six beers after dinner. Dean unravels the small sheet of paper, and looks at it. For a long time, longer than just  _waiting for drunk eyes to adjust_ or  _wow this is a long word._ He just looks at it, reads it two or three times judging by the way his eyes move over it. When he looks back up, he looks at Sam just as long, like he’s reading him too, and Sam swears there’s a shine to Dean’s eyes that hadn’t been there before.

Sam shoots him a questioning look, but Dean looks away, clears his throat a little and heads back towards the doorway. When he passes Sam he stops to face him, he reaches for Sam’s right hand with his left and presses the paper into Sam’s palm, letting his hands linger for a few seconds before letting go and leaving the room.

Sam’s not sure what to think when he reads the quote, but his heart feels a little fuller than it had a moment before. He doesn’t keep a lot of trinkets in his room, but he does have a small, special place set aside where he keeps the few material things he considers really important. A few photos, and old hair tie that had belonged to Jess, a ratty paperback copy of  _The Little Prince,_ postcards he’d gotten from Dean when they were kids. He puts it there. 


	4. 12/4

> _A good laugh is sunshine in the house. –  William Makepeace Thackeray_

Sam’s reading in bed when he hears a loud shout from Dean’s room, he’s up and halfway down the hall when he hears it again and stops, recognizes it as a laugh, not a cry for help. Relieved, he slows down, still heads toward Dean’s room, out of curiosity now. 

Dean’s door is open, he’s sitting cross legged on his bed watching something on his laptop. Sam stands in the doorway and cranes his neck around to see what’s on the screen– an episode of The Three Stooges. When Dean looks up and sees Sam standing there he waves him over. 

“Classic man, come on and watch,” he says in between chuckles and snorts, and pats an empty spot on the bed.  

Sam sits, stretches his long legs out and leans against the headboard. Dean’s bed isn’t huge but there’s plenty of room for them both to sit and watch comfortably. The Three Stooges was never one of Sam’s favorites, or at least he  _thinks_  that, until every time he watches it with Dean and his ridiculous giggling and finds himself laughing along just as much.

They watch a half dozen more episodes, and it’s well past 4am when Sam nods off up against Dean’s headboard. His phone alarm wakes him up a few hours later and Dean’s out, flopped forward over his laptop, torso and arms stretched out over crossed legs in what looks like a horribly executed yoga pose. Sam eases him onto his back and pulls the blanket over him, fixes the blanket when Dean instinctively flips to his stomach a few seconds later. When Sam closes the laptop he sees the newest quote taped to the cover, runs his fingers over it, smiling, before heading for his own bed.


	5. 12/5

> _always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much. - oscar wilde  
> _

It’s funny, despite everything, Dean Winchester doesn’t think of himself as the kind of guy who has enemies. Sure, he’s been in a few bar fights, kissed some women who’s husbands would probably like to take a swing at him, but nothing that’d raise him to enemy status. There’s the monsters, but he kills most of them and a dead enemy doesn’t really count.

“Do you have any enemies?”

Sam shrugs, “Probably? We’ve pissed off a lotta people. Plenty of monsters , too. And angels. Why?”

Dean ignores the question and asks another of his own, “I mean, like, anyone  _you_  consider your enemy. Like, a specific one. That’s still alive. I guess.” 

Sam doesn’t answer right away, like he’s thinking about it or maybe like he expects silence is the best answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is strained, as though his throat’s too tight to allow the sound through properly. “Just the one, then.”

Sam doesn’t really need to say anything more to clarify, and suddenly Dean’s pissed at himself for even asking. Dean looks at the paper in his hand, irrationally angry at the thing now, crumples it and throws it in the trash. He sets the two small pieces of chocolate on the table in front of Sam, hesitates for a moment before placing his hand on Sam’s shoulder and giving it a small squeeze.

“Yeah, Sam, me too.“


	6. 12/6

> _the richest man is not he who has the most, but he who needs the least. -unknown_

“Hey, Sam? Is there anything you need?”

“Huh? You going to the store?”

“No, I mean. Like, it’s almost Christmas and all, so. Presents?”

Sam smiles, this isn’t a conversation that’s happened before. Christmas gifts usually mean newspaper wrapped aftershave and beef jerky from the nearest drug store. It takes a minute for him to answer.

“You know, I mean. Other than the usual goods, I can’t think of a thing.” He laughs when he says it, because it’s funny, considering their lives, a youth spent in hand me downs, rationing meals, years of hustling and credit fraud to get by. But it’s true, nonetheless. Sam turns it all over in his mind, takes inventory of his life. He’s got a place to stay, wheels, his health for the most part, he’s got netflix and food and friends and Dean and chocolate out of a freakin advent calendar for christ’s sake. What more could he possibly need?

Dean smiles back, small and fond and almost shy, “Yeah, you know, I can’t think of anything either.” 


	7. 12/7-12/9

> _Not how long, but how well you have lived is the main thing. - Seneca_

The hunt was just outside of Texarkana, Arkansas, a wraith preying on residents of a convalescence home. It was a quick in and out job, got them out of the bunker and on the road for a few days and neither of them was seriously hurt in the process, so all in all a successful few days.

They get back to the bunker a little after 6pm, Sam unpacks their duffels and gathers clothes for laundry while Dean heads to the kitchen to start on dinner. Dean unwraps a bit of candy as he cooks, pleased to have several days to catch up on the sweets after days of stale M&Ms and convenience store burritos. He unwraps the quote meant for two days earlier and skims the words as he stirs the pasta. 

Sam comes in a minute later, Dean turns to him without really thinking, asks, “Hey, d’you ever think we’d live this long?” Dean used to think of thirty as an unattainable goal.

Sam’s eyes widen a bit at the question, shrugs, “No, I mean I guess I never really thought about it too hard? Figured I’d concentrate on, uh, quality over quantity I guess. Why?”

Dean can’t help the stupid smile that takes over his face, it’s a mixture of pride and awe and something else, love maybe, that Sam inspires. “ahh, no reason. Forget it,” he answers and continues cooking.

* * *

 

> _Keep calm and carry on. - winston churchill_

Sam cleans up after dinner, Dean wouldn’t mind doing the dishes, but Sam offers. Dean pops open yesterday’s box on the calendar, gives Sam both pieces of chocolate, considering he ate the two from the day before, pops them both right into Sam’s mouth for him since his hands are wet and soapy.

Dean reads the quote and laughs, piquing Sam’s interest. Sam raises his eyebrows in question so Dean shows it to him.

“Just see all those t-shirts and phone cases nowadays with some version of this on it. It’s funny.” 

“Yeah,” Sam says, “Like, uh, keep  _calm and eat a cupcake_ ,” he’d seen it on a bumper sticker a while back.

“Keep calm and eat  _pie,”_ Dean corrects, batting an errant bit of soap suds into the side of Sam’s face.

“Keep calm and fucking stop that,” Sam answers back, playfully flicking water from his hands into Dean’s face.

“Hey, keep calm and  _make me_ ,” Dean scoops up a handful of suds now, plops them onto the top of Sam’s head.

“Keep calm and I’m gonna kick you ass,” Sam answers, shutting of the water and chasing Dean out of the kitchen laughing.

* * *

 

> _Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air. - Ralph Waldo Emerson  
> _

Sam reads after dinner, Dean checks out what’s new on Netflix, but they’re both pretty worn out and tired before too late. Dean shuffles into the kitchen for a drink and opens the current day’s box, hollers out to Sam, “Chocolate?” to which Sam answers, “No thanks,” and Dean has them both, smiling at the quote when he reads it. 

On his way to bed he pauses by Sam, hesitates for a second before speaking. “Hey Sam, remember when I said we should go to the beach? Sand between out toes and all that?”

Sam hums a sleepy affirmative and looks up from his book.

“We, uh. We should do that,” Dean continues, “doncha think?”

Sam agrees, “definitely should,” 

That night they both dream about tropical breezes and rocky shores and crystal blue water.

 


	8. 12/10

> _go to heaven for the climate, hell for the company. - mark twain_

It’s supposed to be funny, he knows it is. He gets the joke, of course, but that doesn’t make the heavy cold feeling in the pit of his stomach go away. He shivers and looks away, crumples the paper up and tosses it onto the table beside the chocolate. Appetite is gone, even for something that small and that sweet, he sets them both on the arm of the chair where Dean is sitting and excuses himself for bed.

Dean shrugs a goodnight at him, it 9pm, early for bed but not so early that it’s suspicious so there’s no third degree. Sam’s bed is chilly when he crawls in and he burrows under the blankets, curls up on his side and rubs his cold feet together to warm them. He tries to sleep but it’s not really working, he’s busy pushing each thought out of his head as soon as it flies in, busy trying to swallow his heart back down to his chest where it belongs.  
  
It’s 11pm and he’s still awake, listening to the familiar noises of the bunker and looking for some semblance of comfort in them. The pipes creak and he can hear Dean in the kitchen getting a drink of water, hears him in the bathroom brushing his teeth. He’s surprised at the the shuffle of slippers outside his door, then a hesitant knock.

“Sam, you, uh. Awake? You ok?”

Dean’s voice is gentle and full of concern and Sam knows without asking why, curses himself for not throwing the damn paper in the trash. “Yeah,” he croaks out without sitting up, “just can’t sleep.”

”Yeah,” Dean says softly, walking towards the bed, “you want? I mean, you mind if I? If it would help?”

Sam knows without asking again, without looking up, he shuffles his balled up body closer to the edge of the bed and Dean crawls in behind him. He places a hand gently on Sam’s back and rubs a soothing pattern across his shoulders and down his back, the same pattern used to sooth away nightmares many years ago.

“You wanna talk about it?” Dean asks in a way that sounds like he hopes the answer is no.

“Not really,” because he doesn’t, not right now anyway.

Dean hums in agreement, his hand squeezing Sam’s shoulder a little before continuing its journey. Sam finally starts to feel warm with the heat of Dean pressed up behind him, the knot in his stomach dissolves bit by bit and his heart finally moves out of his throat. It’s warm and cozy and peaceful and sleep finally seems like a possibility. 

In the morning Sam wakes refreshed, despite the snoring, kicking pile of Dean on top of the covers next to him. He watches Dean for a while, incredibly grateful for how intuitive and compassionate he can be sometimes. He whispers  _thanks,_ gets out of bed quietly and heads to the kitchen to cook up some pancakes and bacon for his brother.


	9. 12/11

> _When we are in love we often doubt that which we most believe. - Francois de La Rochefoucauld_

The day had been. Weird. Dean had woken up to the smell of fresh coffee and bacon, sat down to a delicious breakfast that Sam prepared, presumably as a thank you for the night before. Thing is, it was weird, the night before. It was instinct, really, knowing something was wrong with Sam, but not really instinct what to do about it, not since they were kids. Dean hoped that his small gesture helped Sam feel better but, despite the breakfast, Sam had been acting strangely all day. 

Sam did the dishes, too, after he cooked, even though they usually trade off. Dean offered to help, naturally, but Sam had stammered some ridiculous excuse about  _liking the water_  or some crazy shit and ushered Dean out of the room. After lunch, Dean invited Sam to watch a movie or catch up on The Wire on Netflix, but Sam blew him off, something about  _reading a really interesting book_ who’s name he couldn’t remember, apparently. Now at dinner time, Sam’s nowhere around, Dean’s not even sure if he’s still in the bunker, but it’s obvious Sam needs some space so there’s no point looking for him, pressing the issue. 

Maybe Dean overstepped lat night. Maybe Sam didn’t want him there, though Sam’s too considerate to say so of course, at least when they’re not in the middle of an argument. Maybe Dean just should just get it through his stubborn head that his brother doesn’t really need him most of the time.

He wolfs down the chocolate, absently unravels the quote but tosses it on the table with the candy wrappers, unread. He picks it up again a few hours later as he clears the table, and for some reason he’s not entirely ready to examine, the words make more sense than they really have any right to.


	10. 12/12

> _Everything you’ve ever wanted is on the other side of fear. –George Addair  
> _

Yesterday had been  _weird._ It’s his own fault, but he just felt so off. Restless but directionless, boosts of frenetic energy followed immediately by the desire to go to bed and sleep for a good long time. Being around Dean made it worse, but not being around Dean made it worse, too, in a different way, and Sam made sure not to think too hard about  _why_ that was.  He’d gone to sleep early in hopes that whatever it was would pass before he woke up the next day. 

It did pass, for the most part, although there’s still an unexplained excited quivering in his stomach, one that feels like adrenaline and danger. Dean looks at him like he’s a wild animal, cautious and curious, and the intensity of his gaze makes the little hairs on the back of Sam’s neck stand on end. 

It’s a Saturday, which means running errands; laundry, car maintenance, supply runs. Sam’s grateful for the distractions, and by the time dinner rolls around everything feels almost normal again. Dean smiles and laughs and seems relieved, too. The last thing Sam wants is to worry Dean, especially after the other night, doesn’t want Dean to think he’s losing it again.

Sam grabs them the chocolate after dinner, chuckles at the near half empty advent calendar, at what a weird Christmas tradition it’s turned out to be for a couple of boys who never had one before. He reads the day’s quote and feels an unexpected flare of restlessness again, thinks about what he fears, in the deep dark uninspected corners of his mind, wonders what he could find on the other side.

 


	11. 12/13

> _Try a thing you haven’t done three times. Once, to get over the fear of doing it. Twice, to learn how to do it. And a third time, to figure out whether you like it or not.—Virgil Garnett Thomson_

God damn fucking piece of paper. It’s mocking him. This inanimate piece of shit with its curled edges and its frilly font and its god damn cheerful red ink is  _mocking_  him, there’s no other explanation for it. Because Dean has spent the entire day thinking about doing  _something_  for the first time. Ok, maybe more than a day. Maybe a few days. Or weeks. Or fifteen fucking years, who knows. But when a thing is as ridiculously stupid as this thing is, he’s got the good sense to just  _not_  do it. And here’s this damn festive little slip of paper is just egging him on.

Alright, so perhaps he’s overreacting a little. Perhaps sitting here for thirty minutes dumbly staring at these words of advice, like if he just looks long enough it will say something else, is a disproportionate response. 

Sam walks in to check on him about forty five minutes after dinner, leans in the doorway and eyes Dean still at the table, then the pile of dirty pots and pans strewn about the counter.

“Thought you were doing the dishes. Everything ok?” Sam’s brow is furrowed in that concerned way that he has, like maybe there’s something really wrong, and Dean feels like a total idiot for sitting here having a crisis over this damn thing.

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” Dean says, and moves to get up, walks over to the sink to finally start on the dishes, “just letting my food digest.” And wow, it’s an obvious lie but Sam’s kind enough not to point it out.

Sam walks in towards the table to help clear the rest of the dishes, places them on the counter and turns to leave again. He stops by the table then turns around again, leans his back against the counter next to Dean and just stands there silently watching until the dishes are all stacked in the dishwasher and the counter is wiped down. It’s not all  _that_  weird, sometimes they keep each other company like this, so why is Dean afraid to look that way?

Dean balls up the washcloth and tosses it in the sink, then turns to face Sam expectantly. Sam’s eyes are wide and he looks like he might run away or throw up any second, but then he moves, lightning quick, and grabs Dean’s face in his hands. He smashes their mouths together, too hard at first, and then backs off a little, lips in a soft, wet pucker over Dean’s for just a few seconds before taking a step back. His face is flushed bright red and, damn, he may be trembling a little bit, but his eyes are bright and determined.

“That’s one.” Sam says, and turns to leave the room.  


	12. 12/14

> _love me when I least deserve it, because that's when I really need it. -swedish proverb_

“You kissed me.” Dean probably doesn't mean for it to sound like an accusation, but it does, anyway.

“I thought... it was what you wanted. I’m sorry? I guess?” They’d been avoiding each other all day, up until a minute ago when Sam walked into the kitchen for a drink and found Dean standing there. Literally complete avoidance had been in order although Sam wasn’t entirely sure either of them knew why. Oh, well, except for the huge fucking brother-kissing elephant in the room. But other than that...

“Don’t. Don’t apologize Sam. Jesus. Just. Why’ve you been avoiding me all day?”

“Me? I was. I mean I just thought... hey, you know what? Why’ve  _you_ been avoiding  _me_ is more like it?” It’s a last ditch effort but really, Sam has no clue what to say. Dean seems mad, and that’s bad, but is he mad about the kiss or the avoidance?

“I wasn’t. I don’t. I don’t  _know.”_ Dean sounds frustrated, he was ready for fight a second ago but now he just looks defeated, plops down into the chair and rubs his hand through his hair. “Why’d you kiss me, Sammy?”

Sam’s not sure how to answer.  _Because I wanted to. Because I thought_ you _wanted to but weren’t gonna. Because your lips looked to soft and plump and pink and I’ve been wondering for ages what they’d feel like._ They’re all true, after all. He doesn’t have to answer, though, because Dean keeps going.

“You know, sometimes it feels like you can read my mind, or I can read yours. You always do what I think you’re gonna. But that, that I didn't see coming. I mean, why would you? I’m just. I...”

Dean trails off and Sam’s heart breaks a little. Sometimes it  _is_ like they can read each other’s minds, but it’s not anything other worldly, it’s just good old fashioned _knowing_  someone, knowing them deep down and inside out and every where in between.

“You feel like you’re not good enough for me?” Sam raises his voice but it’s really not a question. Dean looks up, flash of anger in his eyes before he looks back down again and nods, defeated. 

“Know I’m not, Sam. Don’t deserve it. That’s why.... that’s why I never did nothing, even though...”

“Even though you wanted to.” Sam walks over to where his brother is sitting, kneels down in front of him so that Dean’s head is slightly higher. “Dean, I’m not saying that you don’t deserve it, because that’s bullshit, but even if it was true, who the hell cares? You kiss people cause they deserve it, or you kiss ‘em cause you want to?”

“Sammy, I-”

“Shut up,” Sam silences him with a kiss, softer and deeper than the last one. He threads his fingers through the short hairs at the nape of Dean’s neck and Dean’s hand finds its way into Sam’s hair as well. When they finally pull apart, panting, Sam rests his forehead against Dean’s and smiles wider than he has in ages. “That’s two. Think we learned how yet?”


	13. 12/15

> _everything becomes a little different as soon as it is spoken out loud. - herman hesse_

Things were surprisingly normal, all things considered. They’d gotten to 2 on the 1-2-3 of doing things you’re afraid of, and Dean’s pretty sure he doesn’t need the third time to tell him whether he enjoys it or not. He does  _want_  to get to the third time, and fourth, and hundredth, and so on, because kissing Sam really is amazing. It’s just, when he thinks about anything else, anything other than that warm, impossibly soft mouth on his, he kinda freaks.

 _Sam’s your brother Dean,_ says the voice in his head.  _Yeah, no fucking shit,_ he says back. Thing is, when it’s just lips, wet, slick, hot, perfect lips, there’s no problem. But Sam’s not just lips, and god help him, Dean doesn’t want just Sam’s lips, he wants all of him. His kisses and his smiles, sure, but also his eyes and his tears and his heart. His dreams and nightmares. His strong arms and long legs and the areas in between, the ones Dean tries not to think about when he’s lying in bed or standing in the shower. He wants Sam’s bones and blood and soul. All of it, and now that he’s had a taste he wants to  _devour_  it. The thoughts leave him feeling ill. Overwhelmed. 

“Hey,” he hadn’t even heard Sam coming, “you, uh… you ok?”

It’s like a pattern with then. Kiss, avoid. Kiss, avoid. This is Sam calling him on his avoidance again. Kindly, but still. 

“We should talk,” Sam continues, “I think we should talk.” 

Of course he does.

Sam sits down across the table and Dean examines the faux wood grain of the linoleum table. Fingers creep into his field of view and Sam reaches for his hand, wraps his long fingers around it and pulls it slightly toward him.

“Dean, I… you… you’re freaking out, dude. You gotta cut it out. It’s not that big a deal.” Sam sounds so nonchalant, how is that even possible? 

“Not that big a deal? Sam, this is so, so far outside the realm of normal.”

Sam laughs at that,  _laughs, “s_ ince when has anything we’ve ever done been anywhere close to normal?” he asks. He’s got a point. “Listen, Dean. Hear me out. You’ve been the closest person to me my whole life. You- you sold your soul for me, you’ve died. For me. And I’ve died for you. We spend nearly every day of our lives together, and have since I was born except for those few years I was away. We understand each other more than any two people I’ve ever seen. And. And I love you. I’ve been in love with you since the eighth grade. So if-”

 “What’d you say?”

Sam blushes a little, looks down at their joined hands and repeats, “I’ve been in love with you since i was fourteen Dean, you gotta know that.“

“Sammy, I,” and dammit, there’s a lump in his throat making his voice go all scratchy, “me too, Sam. Since. Since forever.”

Sam smiles, the real big smile that makes his eyes twinkle like the damn sun, with lots of teeth and all the dimples, and just like that, it’s ok. The heavy weight on Dean’s chest, the one stitched together with guilt and  _bad_  and jesus, _incest,_ it fucking disappears. Gone. Poof. Because Sam  _loves_  him. And Dean loves him back. And that makes them both  _happy._ And all that shit he was hung up on? It’s really  _not_  that big a deal.

Shit, that damn Herman Hesse was on to something.

Well, and maybe Sam, too.


	14. 12/16

> _once a year, go someplace you’ve never been before. – Dalai Lama_

“Texarkana?”

“Yeah.”

“Arkansas?”

“Y-yeah.”

“The rat capitol?”

“Well not anymore, Dean.”

“But it’s a giant rat?”

“Well, that’s what the witnesses  _say_  they saw. I mean, I don’t- I don’t think it’s really that?” 

“R-O-U-S’s, really? We’re gonna spend Christmas hunting giant rats? Come on, Sammy-”  
  
“Did you just  _Princess Bride_  me?”

“Maybe.”

“Come on Dean, it’s a case. And we’ll be done by Christmas anyway, don’t you wanna check it out? Plus, look, right here, the Dalai Lama himself says, we gotta go somewhere we’ve never been.”

“As you wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trying that dialogue only thing all the kids are doing


	15. 12/17

> _It’s so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone. – John Steinbeck_

Turns out it actually  _was_  a giant rat, go figure. Well, a Raijū, technically. How it ended up in Arkansas of all places, and as big as it was, was still a mystery. Global warming, maybe. El niño. Who knows. Doesn’t matter, it was easy enough to kill, they're vulnerable to steel and Dean chopped its head off with one swing once he got his hands on the right sword. 

Yeah, killing it wasn’t the problem. The problem was, the god damn lighting monster decided to crawl all over Sam during a freak thunderstorm. They both felt the lighting coming, the hairs on the backs of their necks buzzed with electricity and the look on Sam’s face a split second before it struck mean he knew what was going to happen. It was so bright it burned his eyes, but Dean watched helpless from across the field as the bolt crashed into Sam. 

The doctor says he’ll probably be ok. Probably. If he wakes up. Dean’s sitting by his bedside in some damn Texas hospital holding Sam’s hand loosely and Sam’s got burn marks over his shoulder and torso. It doesn’t even look bad, just kind of like a sun burn, but damage is worse on the inside, the doctor says, Sam’s heart took a jolt, and it’s taking a while for it to get to beating correctly again.  _When_  he wakes up.  _When,_ Dean corrects out loud to no one in particular.

“Come on, Sammy. You said we’d be home for Christmas. You gotta,” he has to stop, bites back a sob that had been rising, “you gotta wake up for us to do that. Please, ok?”

He paces for hours, talks, begs, hell he even tries to pray. It’s getting late, nearly eleven and Dean hasn’t eaten anything since the night before. Hospital food’s crap and the cafeteria’s closed anyway, so he goes to check the car for some protein bars or beef jerky or m&ms or  _something._  When he pops the trunk he sees it there, that damn advent calendar.  _Sam brought it with them. Brought it for Dean._

He pulls it open to get at the chocolate inside and the quote falls out, Dean picks it up out of habit more than interest and reads the words. 

Leaves it balled up on the wet asphalt next to the car along with the candy as he heads back inside. Appetite gone.


	16. 12/18

> _There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle. - Albert Einstein_

It’s dark. Why is it so dark? Sam goes to move his arm to the side, feel around for a light, when he realizes his arm won’t move. And his eyes are closed (explains the darkness). For a few terrifying seconds he thinks he could be back in hell, in the cage, where sensory deprivation was a common form of  _fucking with Sam_  as they called it. But eventually the memory of the day before creeps back in. Texarkana. The Raijū. The lightning.

Hospital then. Coma? They say some people in comas are self aware, so maybe it’s that. Maybe just paralyzed by pain meds. There’s someone talking, it’s muffled over the constant buzzing in his ears, but it sounds like Dean, becomes clearer once he decides to really pay attention.

“Sammy, you gotta… you gotta wake up. They said your heart’s ok. But, you just gotta come out of this, ok?” Dean sounds wrecked, no doubt he hasn’t slept since whenever the hell the lightning strike was. His hand is warm and heavy over Sam’s, squeezing slightly to punctuate his words.

So, coma type thing, then. Should be easy enough to will himself awake now that his brain seems to be working. Should be, but isn’t. It’s like there’s anvils weighing down his eyelids and invisible binds holding his whole body in place. He concentrates on on the index finger of his right hand, puts every ounce of mental and physical energy into that one finger, into getting it to move.

Eventually, after what feels like hours and hours of herculean effort (actually it was about 45 seconds), the finger wiggles a little. Then a little more. He can’t open his eyes, can’t  _really_  move, but he can wiggle that damn finger and he’s going to keep wiggling it until Dean notices.

“Sam? Sam are you doing that? Can you hear me?” Wiggles it some more. “OK stop moving your finger if you can hear me.” He stops. “OK, move it again?” He does, hears Dean’s chair scrape against the floor as he bolts up, still holding on to Sam. “That’s it, that’s it baby boy. I knew you were in there. I knew it. Hot damn, it  _is_ a miracle. It  _is.”_

Sam wiggles his finger some more, but he’s tired, so tired from it. Dean sits back down, lifts Sam’s hand to his lips and kisses it softly. “Take your time, I’ll be right her when you wake up.”  


	17. 12/19

> _Nobody cares how much you know, until they know how much you care. - Theodore Roosevelt_

“Feel ok?”  
  
“Yeah, Dean. ’m fine. Arm’s a little sore is all.”

“You want another pillow?”

“No, ’m ok”

“Water? I’ll get you water. Or ice chips. Can you have water? Or juice you want juice-”  
  
“Dean. I’ve got water right here.”

“-or chocolate, I still have this-”

“’m not allowed to eat yet, remember?”

“Right. Right, sorry. You warm enough? That blanket’s so thin I could just-”

“Dean! Sit. Down.”

“Ok. Ok Sam, sorry. I’m just trying to make sure you’re ok. So you get better. So I can get you outta here. Just wanna take care of you.”

“I know. Thank you. Gimme your hand ya big doofus. Look, I’m fine. Gonna get out of here tomorrow they said, ok? Just. Relax. I need you to relax. Ok? Please?”

“Yeah. Yeah, ok.”

“I love you, you know.”

“Yeah, Sammy. I- me too.”

 


	18. 12/20

> _A man’s true character comes out when he’s drunk. ― Charles Chaplin_

It’s an eight hour drive home, and Sam normally forgoes pain meds, he’s used to the discomfort, but sitting in the car becomes a lot uncomfortable after about 45 minutes and he pulls out the little pill bottle the hospital gave him at discharge. 

“Hey,” Dean stops him before he pops them in his mouth, “you’re sposed to take those with food aren’t ya?”

“Well, it says  _recommended_. But i mean i had that chocolate earlier. Should be fine.”

The pills. They were. Strong.

“These pills were nice Dean. You’re nice. I like you. Like, _like_ like you.” Dean gave him a funny look, which kind of hurt his feelings because here he was being serious and open about their relationship and Dean was half laughing.

“Sammy, you, uh, should get some sleep, huh? We got another seven or so hours on the road, so rest up.”

“Why… you don’ wanna talk to me De?” tears start to sting the corners of his eyes and he tilts his head to the right so when they fall it’s on the side that Dean can’t see. “I… I jus’ wanna talk to you, man. Like. About _stuff._ Like… like how cute you are.” Sam snickers, unable to stop himself from enjoying how funny and clever he’s being despite Dean’s hurtful words. “And like, whatsamatter? You still love me right? You- you looooooove me,” more snickering.

Dean rubs his hand down his face, rolls the window down a crack and lays into the gas pedal a little heavier than he had been before. “Look Sammy-”

“You love, me, right? You do, you loooove me.” It’s important so he has to keep saying it, right? Makes sense. 

“Sam! Focus! Listen I think those pain meds made you a little loopy and-”

“Pshhhhhhh please. I am ferfectly pine. _fline._  I mean. You know what I mean.”

“-and I _think_ maybe you’ll just feel better after some sleep, that’s all.”

“Fine Dean, I mean. If you- if you don’ wanna talk to me anymore then _fine._ But I ain’t sleeping!” Sam huffs and turns over to his right side as much as he can within the confines of the seat belt. He’s determined to watch the scenery go by for the next 200 miles, cause he damn sure isn’t going to be able to sleep _now._

* * *

Five minutes later he’s snoring and drooling down the passenger side window, and Dean’s kind of sad missed the opportunity to take a video on his phone before his brother fell asleep.


	19. 12/21

> _Piglet: How do you spell ‘love’?” Pooh: You don’t spell it, you feel it. — A.A. Milne_

Dean’s in the kitchen making chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast when Sam finally gets up, it’s late for him, after 11am, but Sam had taken another dose of pain meds when they got home the night before, so he was pretty out of it for a while.

“Pancakes, sleeping beauty?” he asks him, and Sam grunts and nods in response as he sits down at the table. Dean sets a cup of coffee in front of him before he even sits down.

Sam yawns a thank you at him and smiles broadly up at him. Dean’s breath catches in his throat for a minute, because he’s seen Sam like thing a thousand times: hair tousled, pillow lines pressed into the side of his face, a smidgen of gunk in the corner of his left eye, a few days of scruff, soft sleep-worn sweats. It’s old hat but entirely new at the same time, because he hasn’t _really seen_ Sam like this yet, not in this new way. It feels completely… _different._ Good different. Warm and cozy and god damn beautiful different. Lean down and place a kiss on those coffee hot lips different.

“Mmm,” Sam hums into the kiss, “what was that for?”

“Just ‘cause,” Dean answers and returns to the stove.

A minute later he feels Sam behind him, strong arms reach around his waist, carefully so as to not disturb the very delicate act of pancake flipping, and he rubs his cheek lightly over the crown of Dean’s head before dropping a kiss there.

“’s nice,” he says into the tip of Dean’s ear, “this. Us.”

Dean has to agree. He’s still not really sure what _us_ entails, because other than a few kisses and one short conversation (and a stunningly eloquent love declaration in the car yesterday) not much has changed. He’s not sure what the logistics of it are, this thing that they’ve started, but he knows what it _is,_ which is more important anyway. Dean leans back into Sam’s touch, tips his head back and closes his eyes _,_ “better than nice. Come on, grubs on.”


	20. 12/22

> _Is it really possible to tell someone else what one feels?– Leo Tolstoy_

When Dean asked Sam to sleep with him, he meant _sleep_ but he really wasn’t very clear about oit judging from the look on his brother’s face. 

“Dean, I– I mean i’m not sure if I…”

“Look, I mean, just. Sleep. In the same bed. To be close.” Sam’s not the type to rush into a physical relationship (a few one night stands not withstanding) and really, they haven’t talked enough about their  history or preferences or past traumas for him to even know if Sam would ever want to do _that_ (which Dean was surprisingly very ok with). “It feels weird to kiss you goodnight and then go to different bedrooms, is all, you know? Especially since we’ve slept in the same room far more often than not over the course of our lives.” He’s trying very hard not to say outright _I wanna cuddle you and I want you to be the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning_.

Sam smiles a weak little smile at him, his cheeks burning, “Yeah, OK. Sorry I thought you meant- and not that i don’t- I’m just not-”

“Sam,” Dean cuts him off, “I get it. I’m not either. If you don’ wanna, or even if you never wanna, that’s, well, ok.” Dean _is_ the type to rush into a physical relationship, normally, but this is so far outside the boundaries of normal that it doesn’t even occur to him to treat it as such.

The go for Dean’s room because it’s warmer and pile into the bed. It’s not very big but far roomier than cramming into the backseat for a nap. Besides, the confines space just makes it necessary to be as close as possible. They kiss for a while, real honest to god making out kisses, and it’s kind of amazing. Dean could spend hours just mapping Sam’s mouth with his own, tasting his sweet breath and swallowing the soft moans and sighs that form in the back of Sam’s throat. Eventually they get too drowsy to continue and settle in.

Sam’s head is pillowed on Dean’s chest, and he tilts his head up just enough to kiss Dean’s chin. “Love you,” he says sleepily and lays his head back down.

“Yeah, I… me too.” Dean answers, and rubs his chin through Sam’s soft hair.

“Dean? Why don’t you, you know, say it?”  
  
Dean’s stomach drops a little, he’s had this conversation before with women he’s been with, and it never really ends well. The reason is different this time, but still.

“Sam, I just. It’s not the right words.” shit, that didn’t come out right.

Sam sits up, a hurt look on his face, “well don’t say _me too_ if it’s not the right words then.”  Sam’s angry, or hurt, or both, and Dean tries again to find the right way to explain himself.

“No I mean. It’s just not, it’s not how I feel and I-”

“Jesus Dean, what?” Sam’s moving to get out of the bed now, “what the hell are we doing then? This is… what, convenient? It’s sick how could you-”

“No, Sam,” he interrupts, “please lemme explain. I ain't… I ain’t saying it right. What I mean is-”

“Look, I don't… it’s late and I’m- i’m tired. I think i’m just gonna go back to my room for some sleep. We can… we can talk about this tomorrow.”

Dean watches him go, still struggling to find the right words to say what he means, even as the dread of losing Sam settles cold in his stomach. Damnit, he’s never been very good with this chick flick stuff.  


	21. 12/23

The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug. - mark twain  
It’s early, Sam couldn’t really sleep after the weirdness with Dean the night before. He gets up, makes coffee (banging everything noisily in the kitchen out of spite), and eats both pieces of the day’s chocolate (also out of spite) before Dean stumbles sleepy into the kitchen about a half hour later.

“What. The fuck. With the banging,” Dean says, he really is grouchy when you wake him too early.

Sam sort of rolls his eyes and huffs in the other direction by way of an answer, he probably shouldn’t have made all that noise, it’s too early for another fight.

“Sam, listen, “Dean pours himself a cup of coffee and continues to talk despite Sam’s obvious plans to ignore him, “Sam, please, look at me. No? Ok, well I’m still gonna talk. I didn’t say things right last night, I was sleepy and tongue tied and unprepared I guess. But I’m gonna say this now. Sam, jesus, man, I do love you.”

God, it’s nice to hear, but Sam’s still hesitant to accept this as anything more than a peace offering.

“But that ain’t all,” Dean continues, “it ain’t enough. I love pancakes. I love baby. I loved Dad and Mom and Bobby. I love Cas, I loved Charlie. It’s not that I don't… feel that, it’s just with you, it’s different. I mean it’s that, but, man, a whole bunch of other stuff too. Like the way I feel when you smile, that big goofy grin with all the teeth and dimples? I don’t have a word for that. Or how I feel when you’re scared or hurt, and all I wanna do is protect you like I’m sposed to? I can’t describe it. Or, jesus Sam, how it felt to have you pressed up next to me in bed last night? All soft and sleepy and warm, christ, there isn’t a word for that in any language I know of. I just… Sam, I do, but that’s not anywhere near enough, anywhere near what I feel when you add all that together. It’s just-”

Sam cuts him off there, silencing him with a swift coffee flavored kiss. “Dean, I… I mean I understand. I feel… I feel like that too. But I don’t know any other way to say it. And I just want to. Say it. Because you deserve to hear it.”

Dean takes Sam’s face in his hands, brushes a thumb along his cheek, “Sammy, sweetheart, so do you. Just, I’m not used to it. And I’m no good at this. So be patient ok? And if I say me too, well, remember what it means. I more than love you.”

Sam kind of feels like crying, but he doesn’t dare for fear Dean would leave the house and not return until Sam promises not to say one sappy thing for the next five years. He’s pretty sure Dean’s used up all romance reserves until at least the Spring as it is. “I more than love you, too, Dean.”


	22. 12/24-12/25

12/24-12/25

> _The excellence of a gift lies in its appropriateness rather than in its value.  
>  Charles Dudley Warner_

They wake up late on Christmas eve, having actually accomplished the whole  _spending the night in the same bed_  thing without it devolving into a fight. It was. Nice. Dean’s first conscious thought was _man why is it so fucking hot in here,_ the second was _what the hell is tickling my face?_ The answer to both is of course, Sam. They’re sort of twined together, Sam’s head tucked under his chin, their legs wrapped around each other and slotted together in a way that makes Dean’s hip ache a little. He can’t resist  bending his head down a little, burying his nose in that fluffy mane of Sam’s and breathing deep. His arms tightened around Sam and Sam’s tightened back.

“Mornin’” Sam says sleepily as he maneuvers himself even closer to Dean.

* * *

They spend the day quietly, watching a few holiday movies on cable together, Sam reading at the kitchen table and tasting things here and there while Dean cooks, eating in comfortable silence, Sam making appreciative hums and moans around each mouthful of lasagna, Dean casually rubbing his foot against Sam’s under the table. Full and sleepy kisses on the couch after the dishes were done. Really a perfect day.

It’s close to midnight when Sam yawns and suggests they maybe should go to bed. Dean looks at his watch, nervously, says maybe just a few more minutes.

“Dean, you know Santa’s not real, right? And even if he was, the bunker’s probably warded against whatever he is,” Sam’s teasing a little, “so there’s no point in really staying up to midnight.”

Dean swats him lightly on the chest with the back of his hand and stands up, “ha-ha very funny, look, just. wait here a sec, ok?”

Dean walks out of the room and returns a minute later holding a small box. Sam immediately protests, “hey we said we weren’t going to buy gifts. Neither one of us needed anything, and-”

“Shut it. I didn’t buy you a damn thing so don’t get your panties in a bunch. I just. Had this thing for a while. And I wanted to show it you. And it happens to be in a box. It ain’t even a gift for you, ok?”

Sam looks at it when Dean plops back on the couch and extends it to Sam. He’s right, it doesn’t really look like a gift, it doesn’t even look _new_  at all, it’s just an old beat up box, scuffed and dented like maybe it’s something Dean carries with him on the road.

Dean’s watch beeps to signal the hour and he whispers, “Merry Christmas, Sammy,” a second later.

Sam’s fingers shake a little when he lifts the top off the box, half because he thinks it could be a damn prank and something will jump out at him (it’s happened before) and half because Dean looks and sounds so serious he’s afraid it could be bad news. Inside there’s a bundle of tissue paper and Sam sees a bit of braided black silk poking out. He loops his finger through it and pulls until it’s fully out of the box, black strand rubbing against his index finger as the familiar brass pendant swings back and forth.

“Dean? You-?” 

“I couldn’t let it go, not really. That same day, when you stopped at the front office to check out and pick up maps-”

Sam can hear his blood rushing in his ears, tears prickling the corners of his eyes and he wills them not to fall until he looks up and sees the same in Dean’s.

“I went back to get it,” Dean continues, “I wanted to tell you but I was… and then you were… and there was never a good time. And then it’d been so long, so many years, it just felt stupid to bring it up. But Sam, I took it with us everywhere, just wanted to be close to it, you know.”

“Thought you didn’t,” Sam’s voice cracks a little and he clears his throat before continuing, “didn’t need a symbol to-”

“Remind me how I feel about you? I don’t, man. But it just felt wrong leaving it behind. Like I was leaving behind a part of out history, or erasing it, or whatever. I wanna keep all of it, our history. The good _and_ the bad.” Dean shrugs, it’s clearly the best explanation he can put to words, but Dean’s always been sentimental, really, this shouldn’t come as a surprise even though it kind of does.

Sam’s vision is blurry and a few tears trickle down his cheeks despite his best efforts to stem them. He’d all but forgotten the pain of Dean throwing this away, thought he’d moved past it, but seeing it again brought everything back, that feeling that Dean had given up on him, on them, and now the realization that that was never true. It was kind of overwhelming. 

“Shh,” Dean reaches for his face, pulls him into a soft kiss and mumbles against Sam’s lips, “put it on me? Please?”

Sam slips the rope around Dean’s neck, sees the brass amulet nestled once again against the folds of Dean’s shirt, swears it glows a little there, like it _knows,_  like it’s happy to be back where it belongs.

Dean stands again, reaches his hand out to Sam, “Ok, ya sap, ready for bed?”  
  
Sam laughs, standing, “oh, come on,  _I’m_ the sap, ya jerk?”

“The sappiest. Bitch.”

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

“Merry Christmas, sap.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahahaha done whew. how sappy of me, i do apologize. i'm thinking about a porny new year's epilogue maybe whaddya think? thank you everyone for reading this, it was mostly an exercise to see if i could maintain posting one little story a day, which i did kinda fail at but not too bad. your comments and kudos kept me going.


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